Ice cream. Iced Cream, as Mr. Burns from The Simpsons would call it. The most delectable of delicacies. I have had a love affair with ice cream since my first taste. I remember I loved a flavor when I was kid that had pieces of peppermint candy inside. I adored the coolness of it slipping into my mouth and dissipating into sweet cream in my mouth on a humid Texas evening. Rarely, my father would get out the ice cream maker and we’d make our own. It was a brown wooden bucket and he would have to crank a lever a long, long while to get the milk and sugar to solidify into ice cream. I always yearned for a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine around that time. My sister got one. I don’t remember it being a very fulfilling enterprise, making a Snoopy slushie with the cheap plastic contraption. As an adult, I reawakened to the ice cream dream once I quit smoking. I had already been sober almost 3 years by then, and my nightly beer was replaced with a pint-a-day habit of Haagen-Dazs or Ben and Jerry’s. It soon took the place of alcohol and drugs in my life, and I experienced the same level of powerlessness and unmanageability. I craved it and despised myself as I ate it every night. Every morning I’d swear off ice cream, and every night I’d find myself pulling into the store for more. Breyer’s, Haagen-Dazs, occasional sorbets or healthier versions would sometimes substitute, but nothing compared to Peanut Butter and Chocolate Haagen-Dazs, or Dulce de la Leche. And Breyer’s Vanilla is unadulterated perfection, with its uniform flecks of vanilla beans dotting the perfect white cloud of creamy milk and sugar. Every too-good thing must end. If I was a person that could have balance, I could once in a while enjoy ice cream, but I am not. I have had ice cream once in over 2 years, when I had a virus last fall. I know if I start back, I will be on a pint-a-day habit again. I’d much rather have my slim, attractive body and health, than be drowning in ice cream addiction.